Understanding
by Shadow Griffin
Summary: Why couldn't he have just listened? Why did none of them listen when he tried to warn them? He wasn't surprised, they hadn't listened. Now Timothy just floated there in some state of suspended animation, only able to blink his eyes and twitch his lips.


New year's resolutions have given me the ability to type a bit more. Separating myself from the constant negativities of social media actually has helped me, and in less than an hour, relaxing in my room, I came up with this.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea based in this story. All characters and plots belong to their original owners – this story and plot may not be re-submitted or used without permission. Thank you.

_Please note all, and this is important – without going into too much personal detail: I have used compartmentalization for years. I didn't have a happy childhood to say the least, and it helped me to survive, but understand that while it's worked for me for two decades, it IS failing. It ultimately will. I will ask this not as someone trying to make a point but as a human being: don't let yourself fall into the same trap I have. After two decades I've become so locked down that the PTSD I was diagnosed with (like I said – bad childhood) is the least of my worries. If you have learned to effectively use compartmentalization, use it sparingly. It takes a high intelligence to master it, but you need to realize that it is a very strong tool. For yourself, if no one else, save yourself from the train wreck that waits at the end. Please. I am willing to talk to anyone if they need it, simply PM me.  
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Please let me know what you all think. This is mostly just a drabble of thoughts, but nothing too bad for an off day I think. I will always take ideas, pointers, constructive criticism, praise – please, I work in retail. No flames. I deal with that enough. Enjoy all, please feel free to review and PM.

Happy Writing,

Eliana

**IOIOIOIOIOIOIOI**

'Retro-mutagen sample VII-TP remains nonvolatile –'

Wait – that wasn't the right word. A thick, olive green finger pressed the 'backspace' key on the homemade laptop, deleting the incorrect word before slowly dancing over the keys to type out another.

'Retro-mutagen sample VII-TP remains non-reactive –'

That wasn't right either! The word was deleted just like its predecessor and Donatello took a deep breath before leaning in closer, as if sitting only four inches away from the glowing screen would help his exhausted eyes focus on what it was that he was trying to report.

'Retro-mutagen sample VII-TP –'

He wasn't even using sample seven, he was using sample nine! Now he was completely irritated as he slammed his finger down on the 'backspace' button, deleting the entire report he had written line, by line, by line, until all that remained in front of him was a white, incredibly empty computerized document just waiting to be written. The LED lights shot white light out to illuminate Donatello's drawn, off-olive colored skin, and the complexion wasn't aided in the slightest by the soft yellow glow of the mutant contained in the canister to his immediate right. In his exhaustion Donnie only spared the pathetic thing a glance and a scowl, after a moment he spoke though his voice was nearly silent in the crisp air of his lab in the very early morning hours.

"Why did you have to be like everyone else?" he asked, though his eyes stared straight ahead to the computer screen instead of into the floating orbs of the young man (or... once young man) whom he actually addressed, "I mean... I never expected any different, really. Honestly I'm just about used to it by now but... why couldn't you just listen to me, Timothy? Why didn't you listen? Why did no one listen?! I was trying to save you!"

By the end of his small monologue he realized that his voice has raised itself to a high shouting pitch and he very quickly stifled it, drawing in a long breath as his eyelids fluttered closed over the exhausted crimson eyes. Compartmentalization was a very difficult thing to master – it took years at best, and once it was fully comprehended and put to use one had to be incredibly careful not to let it control you instead of you controlling it. There were two sides to this now: Donatello was no one's fool. He had found a long time ago how to compartmentalize and had utilized it under many of his longer nights of work, it had been mastered and perfected by the time the young turtle was ten years old. Pain was an excellent motivator... Donatello would never do anything to his brothers that he hadn't mastered on himself first, and that alone explained the vast majority of the random scars adorning the green flesh. It takes a higher intelligence to not only sacrifice yourself to better the lives of others, but to, instead of reacting immediately with timidity to pain, to question why it existed and what was causing it. From the time he was very young Donnie had poked and prodded at scraped knees and bruises, managing to memorize rough estimations of healing times it took for certain injuries to fully repair themselves.

Of course, he was no fool. He realized a year or so ago that he had lost his grip on his compartmentalization and it had begun to take a life of its own, automatically breaking down scenarios and making them easier to understand and analyze. In the short term it was a very useful tool that helped him perfect many thing, but in the long term he knew it would cause him nothing but devastation. In his times alone he was very much in control but he noted with a bit of scrutiny and anger that it was the opposite when he was around his siblings. He was developing two very different, very distinct ways of acting.

Around his lab, on his own, through his work, he was very dedicated. He was quiet, meticulous, focused, calm, relaxed – he had found that the best way for him to forget the horrors of what he had seen, what he had been forced to do, what he worked tirelessly to protect his family from, was to work and better not only what he had created physically but mentally as well. Work had become his outlet, much like sparring had become Raph's and Leo's and good-humored pranks had become Mikey's. He purposely locked himself in the sanctity of his lab for hours on end and avoided coming back out unless he had no choice for the same reason that some hide in their homes without wanting to venture outside: here, it was safe. Here, he had purpose. Here, he was in control.

Outside of his safe haven was very quickly becoming a different story, much to his frustrations. He was rapidly dissolving into a high-strung, increasingly short-tempered, headstrong, monologing – he hesitated on the word as he scowled – simpleton who spoke up only to try and fit in better with his brothers as he would joke or poke fun or pick apart something they asked. More and more frequently he had skirted away from his intellectual outbursts. No one listened. He loved his family, he would die for any one of his brothers, he was every one of their 'secret' confidants, holding their darkest thoughts and hidden secrets so close to his heart without so much as a shred of concern for sharing his own heart. He loved his brothers, but they couldn't handle one intelligent conversation.

On occasion, he could get one of the three to at least follow along with what he was trying to say, but only if it pertained to a mission, a task, something they wanted – never would they just listen for the knowledge he was trying to give them. Donatello was many things, but one thing he was certainly not without was purpose. He was young but far from naive – in terms of the physical ability to stand his ground in a fight against an enemy, he could do so to a point. Ninja or not, he was a pacifist until it came to protecting his family, and he himself would rather suffer a mortal wound than take the life of an enemy...even the life of those who had scorned him badly like Fishface and Dogpound. He was not without a cynical nature – that's why he had allowed Raphael and Michelangelo roll Bradford down the road in a garbage can, something he was certain was very uncomfortable, if only for his own sick, twisted satisfaction of knowing that the man who had so broken his baby brother's heart was getting some form of just desserts. Donatello wasn't foolish enough to believe that the day would never come where he wouldn't fall in combat... he would fall and this time, he would not get up. He was almost certain that it would be him who went first (logic only dictated so), and upon that realization he had saddled himself the task of trying to enlighten his siblings to the point of self-sufficiency.

It wasn't that his family didn't appreciate his advances for them – hot, running water, the precious television, central heating and A/C, a kitchen, vaccines, all of it was for them and while they appreciated it deeply they did at times take it for granted. Donatello didn't mind too much. Master Splinter was the only one of their family to still hear him out when he spoke up – the rat was wise. He knew that, unlike his other children, when Donatello opened his mouth he had something of importance to say. He would listen, and more often than not the wise sensei would be swayed to his son's side simply by his words. His brothers never did.

They didn't listen when he begged them to help him convince Timothy that staying in the Foot was a bad idea. They must not have heard the desperation in his voice as he tried to convince the boy that he was in over his head. They didn't see the broken look he had, the one of detachment and slight disbelief as they congratulated themselves for having a spy on the inside. They had arrived at the warehouse too later to see his almost feebly desperate attempts to force Timothy, who Donatello had restrained to calling Pulverizer, out of what was clearly an awful, life-destroying decision. Donatello had fallen in with his brothers only for a couple hours until what would be the young man's final phone call. When logic had failed him he tried to force the human's hand and force him out...there was a painful lesson to be learned. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. He hadn't listened. Now he was just there to the terrapin's right, floating mindlessly as if trapped in some state of suspended animation that only allowed him to move his lips and blink his eyes.

Why hadn't he just LISTENED? Why didn't anyone listen?

Finally Donnie let out the breath he had been holding, allowing the carbon dioxide to rush out past his lips as he sat up straight again, physically rolling his shoulders back and straightening his neck before allowing his eyes to open. What Timothy hadn't thought of, what Donatello himself didn't think of until they had returned home with the jarred mutant, was the impact of his change on his loved ones. Donnie didn't know if he had family, friends, loved ones – certainly he had to, right? With this change, his parents or loved ones must be driving themselves to the end of the earth trying to find him. Donatello's best theory for his horrific transformation was that there were no foreign, longer than 10,000 telomere DNA strands on him. For one reason or another the mutagen didn't react to the shorter DNA chains of human DNA alone but instead altered those that were long, and in the absence of a sufficient donation the mutagen had destroyed any human-chain it could find in Timothy's body. It was a mystery as to why his organs had survived, but that was all in the works.

The mutated terrapin rolled his arms for a moment, flexed his fingers, and began to type away again.

"I promise, Timothy. I'll find a way to turn you back."

He never called the blob 'Pulverizer' anymore – he had used the nickname to distance himself emotionally and spiritually from the young man in question. He himself was just as guilty for Timothy's transformation as the boy was, and he took the full responsibility on his own shoulders...he had to live life for him until he could be changed back. He grasped his mug and swiftly took a gulp of his long-stale coffee, not even managing a wince at the foul taste before he jumped, figuratively, head-first into his analysis once more.

"Leo, take a look at this," the slightly-stifled baritone whispered a few hours later from the doorway, Raphael trying his hardest to not give a humor filled chuckle at what he saw.

His older brother came to stand next to him, the sight that greeted him prompting a smile, one of both affection and worry, to bloom on his lips and pull them upward. Both of their younger brother was fast asleep, facing away from them where his head had fallen tenselessly on his desk just shy of his laptop's keyboard. He hadn't even had time to brace his skull when he had fallen asleep, that being apparent by his arms resting on his desk on either side of head, one hand grasping a hold of a highlighter that had bled dry overnight and the other with its digits uselessly and limply curled into the handle of his ice-cold ceramic mug. It was an endearing, but alarming, sight for both of his older siblings.

"That's our Donnie," Leo stated warmly, taking his first step into the lab that had been opened by Raph only a couple minutes earlier.

"Genius works so hard," Raph grumbled as he followed, arms crossed but his neck without tension, "Can't be healthy. Why does he keep doin' this to himself, Leo?"

The eldest sibling had rounded behind his snoozing brother's back and had since crouched down, delicately grasping the purple tails of the younger's mask that had flopped into the genius's face overnight and tossing them over the other's shell.

"...when he sleeps he looks like our old Donnie. You can't tell how much he worries now," it came out more as a whisper than the statement the leader had intended, but his gaze softened at the look on his slumbering little brother's face.

With the greatest care he could manage he brushed the back of his fingers against an olive cheek, then forehead, silently sighing. For a cold-blooded creature he was too warm.

"Bet it was him."

Cerulean eyes blinked in confusion as Leo attempted to make sense of what his immediate younger brother was saying and drew the proverbial blank before he looked up, then followed the hardened eyes to the mutant behind him. Timothy just blinked mindlessly at them, his lips trembling and flexing without purpose as he watched with what appeared to be curiosity. Leo wanted to be upset with his intelligent brother, he wanted to berate him and punish him for being so stupid as to work himself to this, but just looking into the lost eyes of the poor young man that stared right back into his gave him a sudden burst of understanding as to why. Donnie must still have that weight on his shoulders, the eldest surmised with a tight frown, and as smart as he was the purple banded brother could out-stubborn a donkey if he wanted to. Leo didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable, but now it seemed he had no choice... but it could wait. He needed sleep – _proper_ sleep that wasn't on the worn board of his desk.

"Gimme a hand, Raph," he suddenly ordered, reaching out to lay a fond hand on his second-youngest brother's head to try and gently rouse him from sleep, "We need to move him to bed."

He got a grunt in response.

"'bout time. Just lookin' at him layin' like that makes _my_ neck hurt."

It was a long moment before the gap-toothed turtle was able to peel his glued eyelids open, smacking his dry lips before he frowned when his eyes took in Leo who crouched next to him.

"Hey," the leader's voice was charmingly low and gentle, the call using only a single tenor note, "Hey Don. C'mon, we're taking you to bed."

He was almost floored when the exhausted turtle didn't voice a complaint, instead watching with a peaked interest as Leo stooped under one of his arms and held him tightly. He jumped when Raphael did the same but his tension faded when, in a rare moment, the rougher of the two allowed their cheeks to touch just for a precious instant – a moment long enough to convey his affection. It only lasted a couple seconds, but in the moment Donatello couldn't have felt more loved, more appreciated, more...heard by his older brothers. With their arms wrapped tightly around his shell the three began their slow journey back to the genius's bedroom, out of the sanctity of the lab with the floating eyes watching their trip. Raph's works cut their burning bath to Donatello's back short, the callous fingers giving a soft, short lived stroke to the younger's back.

"We got ya, Donnie-boy."

**IOIOIOIOIOIOIOI**

I hope you all have a blessed night/day. I hope you enjoyed the little drabble, feel free to PM and review.

Happy Writing,

Eliana


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